


Imagine

by 2peach22



Category: Dangan Ronpa, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anorexia, Blood, Child Abuse, Pedophilia, Sexual Harrassment, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 22:33:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3185690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2peach22/pseuds/2peach22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The origins of Junko's obsession with despair and rise to fame, in an au where she chooses...differently, in the end. A diary entry in first person of sorts, almost. Sort of a free-verse, even.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imagine

Imagine having one friend.  
Go on. It's hard for some, of course. Some have zero friends. Some have hundreds.  
Imagine having only one.  
Imagine that it's your sister.  
Your sister is perfect. Your sister is strong. Your sister's smile is cheeky and a little too rough, a little too forced around the edges, and tiny freckles dawn her cheeks and the edges of her shoulder blades, and you think she is possibly the most beautiful person that you have ever - will ever - meet.  
Your sister is perfect.  
Athleticism courses through her veins, so she is always outside, so she always smells of dirt and soft grass, and it is an earthy, comforting smell, and you like to press your nose against her neck when you hug and breathe it all in, close your eyes and imagine you are both lying in the woods, watching clouds.  
Your sister is perfect.  
Her pitch always rises to an off-key wail when she's being bruised.  
Your sister is perfect.  
Every last scar that marks her skin - save for what's been dealt by hands far larger, far more sinister than yours, by taller and far more disgusting human beings - is yours, all yours.  
Your sister is perfect.  
Whenever anyone tries to fuck with you, she is possibly the most efficient person in existence; they bleed, they break, they fall. The end. You don't have to worry about them anymore. Ever.  
Your sister is perfect.  
All the pain you've ever given her is, naturally, for her own betterment. Despairing now is better than despairing later. Being crushed now is better than being crushed later. Experiencing and embracing the futility of it all is good for her. It's better that you, rather than anyone else, are responsible for the choked cries that hardly escape bloodied lips, for the hushed pleading that makes her tone splinter in millions of places. It's better that it's you; if not you, who else would do it, after all?  
Your sister is perfect.  
So you lie, and you tell her the opposite. You tell her about how ugly her freckles are, and how her body is insufficient in comparison to yours, and how she has failed you again, and again, and again, no matter how well she does, no matter how she tries to please you, no matter how great her successes are. She'll thank you someday, you're sure.  
Your sister is perfect, and then your sister is  
gone.  
Imagine having zero friends. That's simple enough for some.  
Imagine having zero friends after having only one.  
Imagine having zero friends after having your sister.  
Your sister is  
was  
perfect.

 

Imagine not having a sister.  
Imagine having her gun.  
Thickets and canopies of green surround you as the grass crunches underneath your feet, and you sprint, run, run, run, until you can't see your house anymore, until you can't see anything anymore at all, nothing but evergreens and bush, and you think you might  
do  
it.  
But, no. No. It won't make you feel anything.  
Imagine never feeling anything.  
That's a lie.  
Imagine only being able to feel pain. No, that isn't right; imagine only being able to feel  
despair.  
You want to feel that.  
Craving despair,  
acknowledging despair,  
embracing despair is  
living.  
Imagine living.  
Imagine pulling the trigger and feeling alive for the first time.  
Imagine your ringing ears and the incessant pulsating of your heart and the labored hush of your greedy lungs as you fire - mimicking her, whose aim was always, always perfect - your very first bullet overhead  
and then  
into the  
trees and  
the deer  
and woodpeckers.  
Imagine living.  
Imagine despair.

 

Imagine red.  
Red is all that it is possible for you to see on your third month, twelfth day, third class of the seventh grade - you keep track, or at least, one of you does, though you're not sure anymore whether the voices in your head are in unison or discord - because of fucking Matsuda Yasuke.  
He called you a bitch.  
He  
called  
you  
a  
. . .  
His arms are scratched, slightly. They don't even bleed. That's all you have to show for the pathetic attempt you make at putting him in his place.  
Imagine getting your ass kicked, and being told all about it in mocking, lucid detail.  
Imagine laughter.  
Laughter, laughter, laughter.  
You want to kill something, and it isn't yourself it's  
them.  
All of them.  
Every. Last. One. Of. Those. Fuckers.  
Your sister was strong.  
You are not strong.  
You are going to fix that.  
You are going to be stronger.  
Stronger than her. Stronger than them. Stronger than him.

 

Imagine your sister's gun, once a month in the middle of the night when the moon doesn't show and no one can hear you slip outside of the window and  
imagine picking fights with every last one of them  
one by one and  
losing. Losing, losing. You're always losing until you start  
winning.  
Imagine winning your first fight. Granted, it wasn't a fair one; she was shorter by a bit, and you're almost certain that the length of the bright red claws at your disposal assisted phenomenally, but you won.  
You won. You won. You won.  
You never won anything, it was always  
her.  
Don't think about her. You won. You. You. You.

 

Imagine having one friend.  
Imagine that it's you.  
Imagine you, you, you.  
Clawing through his skin.  
Matsuda Yasuke.  
His red is darker than what paints your nails, and you think it is gorgeous, and you think his black eye is gorgeous, and you think that every last bruise that you manage to give him after  
dozens  
of fights is  
gorgeous.  
Imagine feeling a sort of happiness that isn't happy at all. It's miserable and broken and sickening, disgusting, tainted by-- by what? The blood?  
No. You like blood. You love blood. It's pretty. No, it's  
despair, and you love that, too.  
You walk away, prance away, practically skip down the hall and a voice  
THAT voice  
steady as ever yet pricked, pissed, as always  
beckons you back and you stare because  
he's offering you a hand and a dumbass grin  
and he's telling you something, "Took you long enough,"  
like he was waiting for this, like he  
wanted this  
all along and you  
deliberate, silently, and then you  
take it, weakly, and his grip is more firm and he moves it up and down  
twice  
and you grasp back harder in response, and it is your first handshake and you are  
perplexed.

Imagine utter bafflement.  
Imagine wandering into alleyways at three o'clock in the morning, when the stars are awake and anyone that isn't looking for trouble is asleep and  
looking for  
trouble because  
the only way to become stronger is to throw yourself into situations where you are the weakest person, and you know it, you know it, and sometimes you hate it, but mostly?  
It's a rush, and after years of it, your body takes control instantaneously, responding without hesitation, on an autopilot and a high that takes your levels of dopamine to places never before even dreamed of, because you are  
feeling and  
living and  
imagine that  
you fucked up and you're  
bleeding out on the ground and now it's certain that you'll die but you  
don't because  
you wake up in the hospital instead and  
you're never really sure how you got there but you can remember that there were  
two pairs of  
fuzzy house slippers,  
and the edges of a long white coat,  
and then you blacked out,  
and now you are not dead.  
Imagine having two--  
No.  
No, that's not true.  
Imagine thinking you do, though. Imagine thinking that you have someone that isn't you, and then watching as they are  
suddenly  
like her,  
gone.  
He moved away without saying anything. You won't see him again for years.  
Years. Years.

 

Imagine one year.  
She finally decides to write.  
She asks you about school, and grades, and boyfriends - never have, never will, you're sure - and everything else in between, and it's layered with apology after apology, and god, for approximately one hour - one hour and nine seconds, one of you says - you sit there, weeping like the pathetic little bitch you are, and  
inhale.  
It smells like her.  
It smells like grass.  
Grass. Grass. Grass.  
Wherever she has been, she is living.  
So are you.  
Without her.  
She was perfect. Perfect.  
So are you.  
You are perfect. Or, at least, the fake smiles that you've learned to dawn, coupled with the true confidence packed behind the force of harsh fists, has everyone convinced, in exception to you. It doesn't matter if you believe it or not, though.  
It doesn't.  
You are perfect.  
And she was perfect.  
Her rough scrawl was - is - perfect. Her letter says she misses you, misses you, misses you and you  
really  
really  
really hate her.  
Because you miss her too, and she  
left and  
your only friend is  
. . .  
Needless to say, you don't reply to her letter. Or the next one, or the next, or any of the subsequent letters that she makes sure to send whenever she can.  
But you read them. Every last one and  
okay, you lied. you don't  
send her your replies, no, but you  
write them, annotate the page,  
tell her everything that she'll never, ever hear because  
she doesn't deserve it because she was  
gone.

 

Imagine years.  
That is how long it has taken to convince the entire world that you are perfect.  
That is how long it has taken you to realize that you will never convince yourself of your supposed perfection, because it's bullshit, and you know it but you  
figure that if you play along, you'll be powerful and influential and you'll matter, and they'll all look at you like you looked at  
her  
so you do. You play along. You play the game well. Too well.  
Posture and gait say a lot about an individual; body language, the way they dress, articulate their words.  
You sign on with your first modeling agency when you are twelve, and it is probably illegal, and every last person in that room who signed the bottom line, including and  
especially your "mother"  
knows it.  
But you are pretty - or at least, they buy into that lie easily enough - and you look far older than you actually are, body more developed, puberty having hit you earlier than most. You are pretty, and - for your age - tall.  
This is illegal and you  
don't care because  
you set fires for fun. To carpets and rugs, to papers and pencils, to entire abandoned warehouses, you set fire, because it is fun, reckless fun, gleeful and vivid and bright.  
When you were seven, your mom laughed about it, encouraged it and  
now that you're twelve, your "mother" threatens to impale you, beat you, break your jaw your  
pretty little jaw, she says, but of course she won't she won't because you're too valuable, because  
her career is over, ended long ago,  
and yours is beginning, with that same reckless fuck-all attitude that you have given to your entire life, because feeling anything at all is better than feeling nothing, and  
when you sign your name on that dotted line? God, you can't stop smiling. You don't give a damn. You don't give a single damn, and neither do they.  
Beginning. Beginning.

 

Imagine beginning.  
Imagine meeting an ensemble of girls more broken than the shards of glass strewn across the floor after your "father" has taken in far too much alcohol for his own good and fancies threatening your "mother" with a busted bottle for kicks.  
Imagine the scars. Fuck, the scars; they cut, many of them, in places most would never see, places that don't get photographed, photoshopped, polished into the perfection that they will NEVER actually be in reality, because this is a game of lies - the biggest of which you must swallow for yourself - and limits.

 

Imagine being pushed until you absolutely think that you will  
collapse.  
Shoots take hours. Some take days, if they are elaborate enough. You are a twelve year old girl, and your stamina is more than abundant, but sometimes, sometimes you  
feel  
kind  
of  
dizzy?  
It's probably because you forget to eat.  
And when you remember, your "mother" tends to scold you, so it's a private affair, the only one you have anymore. Not that you mind; you want your name everywhere, in lights, in bold, in blood if that's what it'll take, but it  
isn't fast enough and you're  
stuck at the beginning and you  
need. something. else. Something more, a larger company, another chance, anything to stick out, anything to be selected, and you're convinced that the only way to do that is to be  
different  
whether they want it or not.

 

So, you draw.  
Imagine drawing.  
Drawing. It starts out as simple child's play. Drawing. Little cutesy dresses without much detail, little handbags and shoes and purses and earrings to match.  
Drawing, drawing, drawing. Aww, look! How cute. They think it's cute, they really do, until you start  
designing, and that is something they didn't expect at all, because you are a child and  
when you start to dress yourself, pick your own clothing and style your own hair and apply your own makeup in ways that aren't  
proper or  
normal or  
what "mother" wants, what's "right" for a "lady," she threatens you, makes you change before you get to the studio, so you have to get  
around that bullshit.  
Rushing, rushing, rushing; you do it every day now because of her goddamn stupidity. Strategically placing suitcases and makeup kits near the studio - in local restaurant bathrooms, in department stores, anywhere with mirrored surfaces - you get ready in the morning, in front of your mother, and then - with speed that could probably not be matched even by a Super High School Level Track Star - you strip, redress, restyle, remove and reapply makeup, and go, go, go, because there's no time to stop, because if you are late, you are terminated, and that is that.  
In every free moment you have, you draw. You design. You take exactly what anyone would expect of an outfit, and you warp it, twist it, break it, mold it, reform it until it is yours, all yours, until it is beautiful in that it is abstract and defiant, vibrant and bold and striking, colors rich and lace risque and bold and daring and then you  
dare to  
wear it yourself, because the internet taught you how to sew in the same way it taught you to hold a gun straight and make bombs and  
damn  
you could kill a man with your hands as easily as you could with your looks, or at least  
that's what that one bastard said when you found yourself being  
held back, arms behind you, restrained since  
given the fact that Mori Jirou was - is - the CEO of one of the most prominent agencies in the entirety of Japan and  
given the fact that Mori Jirou was - is - fucking gross, gross, GROSS, the most deplorable human being you should ever hope to NEVER meet,  
he asked you to take off your top in exchange for a job and you  
laughed, laughed, laughed  
and then you lurched, lunged, reached for his  
neck.  
Perhaps the only thing that disgusted you more about that situation is the fact that his body guard stopped you instead of him. Him.  
You are twelve, and he is at least thirty or forty. You are twelve. Twelve.  
Him.  
He is the reason it takes another godforsaken year to see your name in lights, in bold, because it doesn't matter if you have all the prowess and talent in the world if you don't have the right connections, and that  
FUCKING  
PEDOPHILIC  
BASTARD  
set you back, and at any point in time - at any given moment - anyone could set you back, take away every last struggle you have ever made, leave you as weak and damaged as the day you lost the only family you ever truly had, and maybe  
maybe that's why because you  
couldn't shake the one thing you never got because  
in the end, at the end of it all  
when that acceptance letter is in your hands and you are at the dinner table feeling  
absolutely  
positively  
egotistical  
for the FIRST TIME in your ENTIRE life  
because you have fucking EARNED it because  
"...you,  
Enoshima Junko, are accepted into Hope's Peak Academy for your  
pursuit of excellence in the fields of modeling and  
fashion design; as such, should you choose to attend,  
joining the ranks of our elite student body, your title  
\- from this moment on, and carrying you through for the  
rest of your life -  
is  
Super High School Level Fashionista."  
when you read that and the rest of whatever the hell it says doesn't even  
matter  
when you read that and you can see the burning indignation behind your "father's" cold stare  
when you read that and you can practically TASTE your "mother's" jealousy, green and sick and thick with her hatred, with her failure, with her despair  
when you read that  
when you read that, it's almost enough but it's  
not, not quite.  
because, even before you were designing, and even before you were drawing, you were always,  
always doodling.

 

Imagine doodling.  
Specifically, imagine doodling  
bears.  
You are probably five or six. It's hard for you to remember, really, but you've always doodled bears. It devolved into a sort of comfort, a sort of staple; atop every paper, since beginnings are always harsh and confusing and anxiety-inducing, you always doodle bears. Bears, and tiny little hearts, and then your name, in cutesy, curly print that the teacher condemns as illegible, but you've always admired adorable handwriting; it's a gyaru staple. Being cute is bread and butter, and being illegible and unpredictable is, too, and maybe that's why you even have your own system of slang and--  
And none of that is the point.  
None of that matters, because what is important here is  
bears.  
"Bears," the plural, gradually devolved, with time, into  
"bear," the singular form. You draw only one sort of bear on your paper, over time; he is something you've made up on your own, a monochromatic teddy with one eye a button and the other a bold, red slit, and you take to drawing that portion in red ink.  
You name him Monobear. He is monochromatic. This is a "duh" sort of notion that need not even be explained.  
Monobear is intelligent, and you are not. He always has all the answers,  
and you do  
not. And if you draw him, you invoke his will onto your paper,  
so that whatever you write there will be intelligent, too.  
Or, at least, you tell yourself that.  
Monobear is intelligent. You are not intelligent.  
You keep up this ridiculous safety blanket measure for years and years, and eventually, it becomes habitual, even when you no longer believe in your imaginary friend, because  
you don't need to believe in him, because he is  
you, or at least, one of you, along with all of the other yous, and you guess that  
maybe, the reason that he's there is because he is the embodiment of your creative muse.  
Mere intelligence via the power of suggestion was not all he offered; he offered  
coping, he offered  
bombs, guns, knives, blood,  
all doodled and scribbled on pages where the teacher couldn't  
see, because you  
really don't feel like getting another phone call home today.  
Death. Death. Death. Death is coping. Death is feeling. Death is  
despair, and Monobear is  
despair, and you are  
despair, and your sister is  
despair, and you know it, and she knows it, has had it drilled into her from the time you first came up with it, that despair is the only way, and that one day, you'll unleash it upon the entire world together, hand in hand, because you are  
friends and  
sisters, and no matter what, you'll always, always, always have each  
other.  
You know. You know, because of him. Because of  
you.  
Doodles became drawings. Drawings became designs.  
The law of syllogism then dictates that, naturally  
. . .  
Boring.  
You're bored. This is boring. This explanation is...boring.

Imagine your name in lights.  
Imagine your name in bold.  
The one thing you are missing is your name in  
blood.  
Imagine blood.  
It is pretty and red and jarring and horrid and taboo in all the ways that make you feel alive, and when your  
dear  
sister  
comes  
crawling  
back  
the first thing you ensure is that she  
bleeds.  
Returning to you as a Super High School Level Soldier, you must admit, is impressive.  
No. You don't have to admit that.  
You don't have to admit a goddamn thing to her, because she is  
worthless and  
imperfect, right?  
It's not like she's ever meant anything to you.  
You don't even know why she's back.  
Why the fuck did you even bother to come back, Mukuro?  
Hm? Did you think I actually  
wanted you here?  
That's  
really  
pathetic.  
Then again, you've always been  
annoyingly, distastefully, indisputably  
repulsive.  
Oh, and would you look at that? You've come back with a  
tattoo?  
A wolf.  
Hahahaha! Cute, how cute, really! Tell me, Muku-chan,  
who  
the  
FUCK  
said  
that anyone could mark you who isn't  
ME?  
And yet, you say you're sorry. You say you love me.  
Love.  
Like you fucking know what that is, you brain-dead dipshit.  
I'm not interested in your love, Mukuro-ne.  
I never have been. I never will be.  
The only thing I'm interested in is your  
despair. And it is for that reason that I,  
Enoshima Junko,  
do decree that...  
... you're mine again.  
Don't you dare to leave me.  
I'll make you regret it dearly.  
. . .  
You said that, and you meant it, but really, you  
already were going to make her regret it, because you  
already added into the blueprints the device that would  
spear her through in so many places that  
recovery would be a  
pipe dream, because you were  
angry  
because she  
left you  
because she was  
gone  
because you  
. . .  
You don't know.

 

Imagine uncertainty.  
Imagine...not knowing.  
Imagine getting to Hope's Peak Academy, setting out to bring the world to its knees,  
because you're Enoshima fuckin' Junko, and you  
can  
and you  
will  
and you've got the entire world at your disposal already, the entirety of Fenrir thanks to your sister, and the hearts and minds of millions of the youth of this generation and you know  
you KNOW that you can  
you can.  
... But you don't.  
You don't do it.  
You can take it all and break it down, set it ablaze like a flimsy, insignificant piece of tissue paper, but you  
don't  
do it.  
You don't do it. You have all of the framework laid out, years and years of ambition and planning, of designing and scheming and learning programming and creating functional blueprints and you  
don't.  
Because, imagine having  
two friends.  
Their names are Nanami Chiaki and Naegi Makoto, and on the  
very first day of school, you throw her backpack out of the window - with her 3DS, cell phone, and other valuables as victims by proxy - and watch it  
fly,  
dropping  
three stories and  
crashing onto hard, concrete pavement.  
Despair was, of course, the goal, and it succeeded, but she  
stuck around, anyway.  
Or, maybe it's that you stuck around her. You don't know. You don't care. You play video games with her often, now, and you think you almost  
kissed.  
And with him, Naegi?  
The very first day of school, pitting your despair against Komaeda's hope,  
you and the white-haired moron dove  
out of your dorm room window and  
somehow - his "luck," he kept saying - he gets off scotch free and  
you  
have a broken leg, and  
Naegi Makoto and Nanami Chiaki  
take you to the infirmary, and it is the  
first  
act  
of absolute kindness that you have experienced from a stranger since  
Matsuda Yasuke saved you from bleeding out all alone,  
and it is the  
first  
time in  
years that you  
cry tears that are  
actually genuine.

Imagine having three friends.  
Imagine befriending a small boy named Fujisaki Chihiro. You shouldn't know that they're a boy, but you've essentially stalked every last goddamn person who would  
EVER attend Hope's Peak and it  
slipped, and you outted him, and it is the  
first  
time in  
years that you felt  
fucking  
AWFUL  
like you were  
LEGITIMATELY a BITCH and you  
race after him, feet carrying you at a speed you don't look capable of as  
adrenaline allows you to catch him by his shoulders and  
for the first time in  
years  
apologize.  
You went dress shopping with him the other day, and he's one of the only guys you know that doesn't give a fuck about assigning gender to clothing, and he makes you so  
happy.

Imagine having four friends.  
Imagine meeting your fourth friend because you felt like braiding his hair.  
It is long and thick and dark, and you are bored and have zero shits to give regarding something like  
boundaries  
(you stalk people, after all)  
so you ask to braid it, and you guess  
that he doesn't give a shit either, because he says  
yes  
and then you have a long discussion about  
world domination, genocide, eugenics, infant experimentation, the economy, and Hitler,  
and you think he is the  
brightest  
most interesting  
most intelligent person you've met in this entire school so far,  
and  
(you don't catch it at the time and you still think that you probably imagined it but)  
he, possibly  
hit on you, and, just like you do, he likes  
art; painting, especially, and  
somehow, someway, his presence itself calms you down and he  
manages  
somehow  
(because being able to mimic anyone and anything happens to make him a really, really good therapist, but really, you don't think he's necessarily trying to do that; he just  
likes to talk to you and it's  
mutual)  
to coax you into taking medication so that you are less  
anxious and  
depressed and  
scattered, and he is the  
first  
person  
to ever truly make you feel beautiful.

Imagine having five friends.  
Imagine that your fifth friend is your  
(now) ex-boyfriend.  
Imagine actually  
falling in love, after  
(willingly) falling out of a window to prove a  
stupid point and  
imagine discovering that you're really so much alike even though he  
won't  
shut up  
about hope and  
imagine  
falling out of love because he keeps  
hurting you, keeps  
pushing you away, because he's  
dying  
and he's hurt, and you know he doesn't mean it, you know,  
but he hurts your friends, too, and you  
don't  
get many of those, so you break it off,  
and you think you hate him, probably, except you  
can't  
because he is the  
second  
person  
to ever truly make you feel beautiful.

Imagine having six friends.  
Imagine having a sixth friend at all. It's amazing you even have one, really, but  
imagine that it's your sister.  
Imagine your sister's face when she finds out that  
hey, I don't really want to  
despair  
any more  
. . . can we start over? I want to have a  
life with you, and maybe be  
happy. Together.  
. . .  
Because, if you're imagining that went well at all at first,  
at  
all.  
Ha. Hahahahahahahahaha!  
You don't know why you thought that would go over well, really, when all your life you've  
abused her  
belittled her  
made her feel like nothing when she was  
beautiful and perfect and precious and more valuable and  
stronger  
than you  
ever would be.  
You were going to kill her, too. Because you're a bitch.  
(understatement of the century, really.)  
But...now?  
Now is...  
... different.  
It takes her awhile to adjust and at first she  
doesn't even think that the person she's talking to is  
you.  
There's an incident where you're off medication and you tell her you want nothing but to  
despair, again, but it's not you talking but  
rather  
many of you, all at once, either in unison or chaos and  
Izuru has to keep Mukuro from doing as you  
say and  
flushing the medication down the toilet, [like she did when you were  
very young, before you originally stopped downing it daily as diagnosed] (because  
she said that the person she was talking to isn't even  
you, Junko-chan, and it was  
selfish, but in the end,  
you both were.)  
Regardless, you  
apologize and  
beg and  
god, please, mukuro, just  
this is me  
this is totally me!  
i promise. i promise i mean what i'm saying and i  
know, i know i fucked up, i fucked up, okay?  
(and she rips off her shirt, eyes livid, piercing, because  
[... junko. this is...everything i've ever lived for.]  
her skin is dotted with precious, tiny freckles and scars, scars, scars,  
none from the battlefield and  
[all of these are from you.]  
you spot one from where you took a cigarette and burned her right on the stomach--you don't even smoke. you bought them solely to  
mark her. it's mostly faded, now, but the skin is still raised, forever dyed a shade of pink that doesn't quite match the rest of her skin, tanned from extended combat in the desert and  
you're fucked up. you're fucked up. you're fucked up.)  
And, you know  
maybe you still  
don't know what you're doing, or how you're doing it but  
she agreed that she wanted to  
try, too, with being  
happy.  
You know you still fuck up. You joke about things that aren't jokes, you  
accidentally call her  
worthless and it  
sets off a domino effect in her  
core  
that you don't register until three a.m. when you  
really stop to think about it, and you realize  
you fucked up. You fucked up. You fucked up.  
But you  
love her and  
she loves you and  
you've begun again, all over again, and you're  
trying, to make up for all of those years lost  
hating and  
hurting the  
one person that has  
always been there for you, even when she  
wasn't.  
You told her you want to start over.  
And you  
have.

Imagine having  
seven.  
Seven friends.  
This one is pushing it, sure, but you'd like to think he's your friend.  
If you're being honest, you were originally drawn to him because you  
knew  
nothing about him. And,  
to be  
entirely honest, you  
still don't know much about him.  
You know that, first and foremost, he is not his twin brother. This is obvious, and should go without being said, but it  
follows him, and he  
hates it.  
You're going to assume that's why he pushes him away in public. It's what Izuru assumes, anyway.  
That's probably the case, anyway. You know that he's  
genuinely a good person. So there's  
no way  
that he's doing that solely to be a dick. He's trying to stay sane and  
seriously  
aren't we all?  
Sane. That's a relative term, isn't it?  
You wouldn't say that Hajime is insane, at all, but he is  
certainly lacking stability, because his father is always  
pressuring and pressuring him to be  
"perfect" and he's  
not,  
(even if I think so)  
because  
(in his eyes, presumably, and with his words, and not mine or whatever)  
he isn't Izuru, and because he  
needs anxiety medication like you do and  
his father sees it as a "crutch,"  
so as proof  
(to himself? to his father? to...?)  
that he isn't weak, there are  
bottles and bottles underneath his bed of  
expired  
unopened medication.  
. . . There's  
more than that, though.  
So much more, because he likes  
cats. He has a cat named Mochi, and as much as he'll say  
otherwise, he loves him.  
He loves his brother, too, even if he pretends he doesn't exist outside of their home and dorms and he  
knows coin tricks and card tricks, and likes to use them to  
calm down small children, and he also is a  
very studious, very hardworking individual,  
(to the point where he's passed out from overwork and wound up in the hospital, which is...scary, to say the least)  
although he  
sucks  
at English, so badly, and oh my god,  
if you think Izuru is the most intelligent person at Hope's Peak, you  
probably haven't spoken to Hajime yet, because  
(and I'd never dare to voice it aloud, but)  
I think he's  
totally, completely, entirely, undeniably  
brilliant.  
His eyes are  
mesmerizing and warm,  
a soft hazel that can turn  
frigid and deadly if he's set off, but he's also  
playful, and open, and carefree, and,  
well, also, you kissed him in a closet once, and his lips are  
nice.

 

Imagine having...one last friend.  
You haven't seen him in years.  
Matsuda Yasuke.  
The first thing you do from the  
very first time you realize he attends this school  
is trip him,  
and he harshly flicks your forehead,  
so you land a punch to his jaw and he  
gets you in the stomach and then you're  
on the ground and honestly you're  
laughing  
you can't stop  
laughing and he  
just  
starts up with it, too, and asks if you're  
alright,  
and of COURSE you're alright, because after all,  
even now,  
you're pretty sure you can easily kick his ass.  
You...think you've actually always been friends.  
In a weird way.  
God. He's such a fucking dumbass.  
You hate him.  
(But not really.  
You don't mean that at all.)

Imagine being  
uncertain.  
Because there are still  
so many yous inside of you and  
so many things you want and don't want  
and  
the you that you have so carefully constructed  
the model, the fashionista, the  
goddess  
of  
despair  
Enoshima Junko is  
a series of lies so carefully composed that you  
don't know which components of yourself are real and  
which were just  
swallowed.  
All of your mannerisms are  
faked.  
Gesturing dramatically with your hands to attract attention?  
Faked.  
Moving your lips in just the right way?  
Faked.  
Perfect posture?  
Faked.  
Loud, booming, chipper, happy, confident little voice that sounds like one thousand rays of too-sweet sunshine, annoying yet  
supposedly, according to those who  
aren't her  
seductive?  
... Okay. That's...probably not entirely faked, not all, because  
some of that is  
unmistakably her.  
Anything you do to attract attention and to  
seem confident in your appearance and your very being is  
learned, mimicked,  
faked, borrowed or  
stolen, and separating what  
is and isn't Enoshima Junko is  
finding the needles in the haystack of your collective slop of consciousness.  
Maybe you don't even exist, actually.  
Maybe Enoshima Junko is entirely fake.  
Maybe nothing is real about her at all, and that's  
horrifying, because  
all you want is to be  
strong  
celebrated  
praised and  
maybe even  
loved  
. . .  
But...  
Even so.  
Even if Enoshima Junko isn't real, it's  
not all that exasperating of a task to  
imagine her existence up to this point.  
Imagining what comes after is...more difficult.  
You? Graduating?  
Getting married, maybe? Having kids?  
You're...not sure.  
You're only a kid, after all, and you  
still have plenty of time.  
Even so.

 

Imagine being Enoshima Junko.  
Imagine being the embodiment of despair, and imagine  
not  
caring for it anymore, not one bit,  
because what matters isn't  
hope, despair, or anything inbetween.  
What matters is,  
probably,  
who you are,  
where you've come from,  
where you're going,  
and what you'll do with all of that.

You never really know.  
I  
certainly  
didn't.  
I still don't, and...  
Even so, even not knowing, I think I've  
finally found happiness.  
Hahahaha! It's ironic, isn't it?

It's almost  
despairingly  
ironic.

Almost.

. . .

Almost.


End file.
